The Broker
"She's the top seller in Neo-Miami. He can't afford the house. She makes him an offer."
The house is perfect.
Three bedrooms, ocean view, exactly what my startup money can afford—if I stretch every credit to breaking point. It's the first real purchase of my life. The first sign that I've made it, that I'm not just another tech kid chasing dreams in Neo-Miami.
The broker meets me at the door.
"Mr. Park? Veronica Solis. Welcome to 1847 Oceanview Drive."
I forget how to speak.
Veronica Solis is not what I expected from a real estate agent.
Forty-nine years old, according to the plaques in her office. The top seller in Neo-Miami for fifteen consecutive years. She's built like something from a fever dream—thick everywhere, curves straining against a business dress in coral pink that does nothing to hide them. Her skin is bronzed, her hair a cascade of dark curls, her face beautiful in a way that makes you forget about houses entirely.
She's easily two-fifty. Maybe more. And she moves through the property like she owns it—because, in a way, she does.
"Three bedrooms, as you requested. Two and a half baths. The kitchen was renovated last year—granite counters, smart appliances, the works."
I follow her through rooms I barely see.
I'm too busy watching her walk.
"The master suite is upstairs. Ocean view, as I mentioned. Shall we?"
We shall.
The master bedroom is spectacular.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony overlooking the water, everything bright and airy and exactly what I've been dreaming of since I sold my first app for real money.
But Veronica is more spectacular.
She leans against the window frame, silhouetted against the ocean, and every line of her body seems designed to torture me.
"Your pre-approval is for 1.8 million," she says. "The asking price is 2.1. That's a significant gap."
"I know. I was hoping to negotiate."
"Negotiate." She smiles, and it's not a kind smile. "The market in Neo-Miami doesn't negotiate, Mr. Park. It takes what it wants and leaves the scraps for everyone else."
"Then I'll find another house."
"You won't. Not like this one. Not with your budget." She moves toward me, heels clicking on hardwood. "I've been doing this for twenty-five years. I know what's out there. And I know that this property—" She gestures around us. "—is exactly what you need."
"But I can't afford it."
"Not with credits." She stops in front of me. Close. Too close. "But there are other currencies."
"What are you suggesting?"
I know what she's suggesting. The way she's looking at me—hungry, assessing, like I'm a property she's considering acquiring—makes it obvious.
"I'm suggesting that I've shown this house to thirty-seven buyers. Corporate executives, trust fund brats, celebrities looking for beach retreats." She reaches out, straightens my collar. "Not one of them interested me."
"And I interest you?"
"You're young. Hungry. You built something from nothing." Her hand slides from my collar to my chest. "I like hunger. I like ambition. I like men who know how to work for what they want."
"And if I work for you?"
"Then I convince the sellers to accept your pre-approval. I waive my commission. I make this house yours." Her hand moves lower. "All you have to do is close a different kind of deal."
My cock is straining against my pants. She notices.
"There it is," she murmurs. "The hunger. The ambition. The willingness to do what it takes." She cups me through the fabric. "So, Mr. Park. Do we have a deal?"
We have a deal.
I don't know who moves first—maybe me, maybe her, maybe the desperate want that's been building since she met me at the door. But suddenly my mouth is on hers, and she tastes like expensive lipstick and champagne, and my hands are grabbing handfuls of her—hips, ass, the soft overflow of flesh that strains against her dress.
"Yes—" She's tearing at my shirt. "—that's it—show me that hunger—"
I spin her around. Press her against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ocean glitters behind her as I yank down her dress—zipper straining, fabric tearing, revealing a body that makes my brain short-circuit.
She's wearing a black lace bra that barely contains breasts the size of my head. Her belly is round and soft, her hips wide enough to eclipse the view. Everything about her is abundance—more than I can hold, more than I can process, more than I've ever imagined wanting.
"Like what you see, Mr. Park?"
"Call me Jin."
"Like what you see, Jin?"
"I want to devour you."
"Then devour."
I drop to my knees on the hardwood floor.
Pull down her underwear—matching black lace, soaked through—and bury my face between her thighs. She gasps, grabs the window frame, and spreads wider to give me access.
"Fuck—you don't waste time—"
I don't. I eat her like I'm starving—because I am, because I've wanted this since the moment I saw her, because something about her makes me abandon every pretense of restraint.
She's sweet and musky, wet enough to coat my chin, and the sounds she makes echo off the empty walls of my future bedroom.
"Right there—yes—don't stop—"
I find her clit and focus everything on it. Suck it between my lips, work it with my tongue, feel her thighs begin to shake on either side of my head.
"You're—god—you're good at this—"
I'm better than good. I'm motivated. And when she comes—screaming something in Spanish, her whole body shuddering against the glass—I feel like I've just closed the biggest deal of my life.
"On the bed."
Her voice is ragged. Commanding. She points to the bare mattress—the staging furniture hasn't been removed yet—and I lie where she indicates.
She strips off the rest of her clothes. Climbs onto me. All that weight settling onto my hips, pinning me down, making me hers.
"The terms of our arrangement," she says, reaching back to position me at her entrance. "I get you—whenever I want, however I want, for as long as I want." She sinks down slowly. "And you get your dream house."
I groan as she takes me in. She's tight and hot and wet, and every inch of her is pressing down on me.
"Do we have a deal?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"Then let's close."
She rides me like she's racing toward something.
Her body bounces above me—breasts swinging, belly rippling, everything in glorious motion. I grab her hips and thrust up into her, meeting her rhythm, watching her face contort with pleasure.
"You feel—god—you feel amazing—"
"Tell me how much you want this house."
"I want it—I want it more than anything—"
"Then earn it." She speeds up, grinding down hard. "Make me come again. Make me scream. Show me your hunger."
I flip us over.
Pin her to the mattress, her thick thighs spreading wide beneath me. I drive into her—deep, hard, relentless—and watch her lose control.
"Jin—yes—harder—"
I give her everything. Every ounce of ambition, every shred of desperation, every bit of hunger that got me from nothing to here. I fuck her like my future depends on it—because it does.
When she comes, she screams loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
When I come, I bury myself to the hilt and claim what's mine.
We lie on the staging mattress, both breathing hard.
Through the windows, the sun is setting over the ocean. Orange and pink and gold, painting the room in colors I'll see every evening for the rest of my life.
"The house is yours," she says finally.
"Just like that?"
"I'm a woman of my word." She traces a finger down my chest. "I'll handle the paperwork tomorrow. You can move in by the end of the week."
"And... us?"
"Us?" She laughs—a low, satisfied sound. "Us is ongoing, Mr. Park. The house was a one-time payment. But the arrangement—" She squeezes my softening cock. "—the arrangement is indefinite."
"You want to keep seeing me."
"I want to keep using you. There's a difference." But she's smiling. "Unless you object?"
I look at her—this incredible woman, forty-nine and powerful and built like every fantasy I never knew I had. She could buy and sell me ten times over. She just gave me the house of my dreams in exchange for sex.
And I've never felt more alive.
"No objections," I say. "None at all."
I move into 1847 Oceanview Drive on a Saturday.
Veronica arrives with champagne and a housewarming gift—herself, naked under a trench coat, ready to christen every room.
We start in the living room. Move to the kitchen. Work our way through both guest bedrooms before finally ending up in the master suite, tangled in my new sheets, watching the moon rise over the water.
"You're going to be an excellent client," she says.
"Is that what I am? A client?"
"You're a project." She kisses my shoulder. "I invest in properties, Jin. I see potential, I acquire, I develop. You have potential."
"For what?"
"For everything." She props herself up on one elbow, looks at me with those dark, calculating eyes. "I can introduce you to people. Open doors. Help your startup grow into something the whole territory talks about."
"In exchange for?"
"In exchange for this." She gestures between us. "Your body. Your enthusiasm. Your hunger. Whenever I want it."
"That's a lot to ask."
"I'm offering a lot in return." Her hand finds my cock, beginning to stroke. "So. Mr. Park. Do we have a deal?"
I pull her on top of me.
"We have a deal."
Five years later, I'm on the cover of NeoTech Magazine.
"The youngest billionaire in Neo-Miami," the headline reads. "How Jin Park built an empire from a beach house."
They don't know about Veronica.
They don't know about the introductions she made, the deals she facilitated, the doors that opened because the most powerful real estate broker in the territory whispered my name. They don't know about the nights in my oceanview bedroom, where I pay for her patronage in the only currency she accepts.
But I know.
And so does she.
"You've done well," she says on the anniversary of our arrangement.
We're on my balcony, watching the sunrise. She's wearing one of my shirts—it barely covers her—and sipping coffee like she belongs here.
She does belong here. She's owned me since the day we met.
"I had a good investor."
"You had a demanding one." She sets down her cup. "Are you happy, Jin?"
"I have everything I ever wanted."
"That's not what I asked."
I look at her—fifty-four now, silver threading through her dark curls, more beautiful than the day we met. She gave me my house. My career. My life.
And somewhere along the way, without either of us planning it, she gave me her heart.
"Yes," I say. "I'm happy."
"Good." She leans in, kisses me soft and slow. "Then we should discuss expanding our arrangement."
"Expanding how?"
"I'm retiring next year. Leaving the brokerage." Her eyes meet mine. "I thought I might need somewhere to live."
I stare at her. At the woman who bought me for a beach house. At the investor who demanded payments in flesh. At the partner I've had for five years without ever calling her that.
"Move in," I say. "Make this your home."
Her smile is the sunrise.
"Deal closed," she whispers.
And on the balcony of the house that started everything, we seal it the same way we began—with hunger, with ambition, with everything we have.
Sold.